11
The night of Michael’s death, the slim brown-haired woman who was his wife lay on her back in their double bed in the room with the purple walls and white goatskin rug, and stared at the shifting patterns on the ceiling. It was late; very late.
The rain had stopped and the clouds cleared to allow the moonlight to glint on the bottles that lined the dresser. She closed her eyes.
At five in the morning, Scarlett awakened to the chimes of the front doorbell. Stumbling, she threw on her robe and confronted the two uniformed officers at the door. “Mrs. Kane?”
“Yes?” Her heart sank at sight of the police officers, one tall, lanky, and grave, the other a small female who screwed up her eyes and twisted her mouth, prepared to deliver bad news. Scarlett knew. She grasped the door jamb.
“The
